by Marian Keyes
12.16
The Oak
Same barman as last night. Ol’ Prune Eyes. Asked him, ‘What is soup of day?’
‘Mushroom.’
‘Okay. And cup coffee.’
‘Latte? Cappuccino? Espresso?’
‘Er… latte.’
‘Soy milk? Skinny?’
‘Er… skinny.’
Not expecting so much choice.
Found self asking, ‘So, where you from?’
Cripes! Have become irritating person who instigates conversation with everyone she meets, which I so am not. In Dublin, make point of principle to talk to as few people as possible. Especially when buying things. Have you noticed lately how shop assistants have been told to say validating bon mot about purchase when wrapping it? They say, ‘Gorgeous colour!’ Or, ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Always find self wanting to say, ‘Actually no, dislike colour very much. One of least favourites.’
I mean, would hardly buy it if didn’t like it!
But they are just doing their job. Not their fault.
‘From Egypt,’ Ol’ Prune Eyes said.
Egypt! Multinational! Is like cast of Lost here in Knockavoy!
‘You are long way from home!’ Thinking, What a stupid thing to say. Sound like wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.
Then I say, ‘You must miss warm weather.’ Thinking, That is also stupid thing to say, and bet everyone says it.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That is what everyone says. But more to life than weather.’
‘Like what?’ Suddenly curious.
He laughed. ‘Like three meals a day. Like freedom from political persecution. Like opportunity to provide for family.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I see your point.’
Feel bit better. Have connected with another human being.
Warmish glow interrupted by man at the end of the bar – slumped, unkempt creature – calling, ‘Osama! Enough of chat! Where’s my pint?’
I asked, ‘Is your name really Osama?’
Thinking, Cripes! That would be hard cross to bear. Even worse than Ol’ Prune Eyes. No wonder he got political persecution!
‘No. Is Ibrahim. Osama nickname from locals.’
Late afternoon
Walked home by seafront. Passed funny old house. Houses on either side had been modernized – PVC windows, fresh paint – but this one was weather-beaten and sort of slumped-looking. Faded blue paint on front door was coming off in handfuls. Reminded me of time I’d had chemical peel. On window sill, sea anemones, pebbles, sand, periwinkles. No curtains, so could see right into front room. Fishing nets hanging from ceiling, starfish shells, conches, driftwood pieces like sculpture. Name of house, ‘The Reef’.
Magical place. Wanted to go in there.
18.03
Mobile rang. Recognized number: Grace Gildee, charismatic journalist woman. Was stalking me! Threw mobile into handbag as if red-hot. Get away, get away, get away! Ten seconds later, double beep of message. Get away, get away, get away!
Deleted message without listening. Afraid. Obviously no one can make self talk if self doesn’t want to talk. But still afraid. Grace Gildee pushy, persuasive, determined. Also – possibly – nice.
20.08
Grocery-cum-newsagent-cum-DVD-shop
Brandon and Kelly on duty again. On Brandon’s recommendation, got The Godfather. Kelly tried to steer self in direction of Starsky & Hutch. She said, ‘Two hunks like them, they’ll take your mind off your fella getting married to someone else. So did he tell you to your face?’
She was agog to hear and I was agog to tell. As soon as I said, ‘Paddy de Courcy,’ she exclaimed, ‘I know that name! Politician man, yes? I’ve seen him! In VIP! Get it!’ She directed Brandon to the magazine rack. ‘Go on, get it, get it!’
She devoured pictures. Made many comments. Said Paddy was ‘way lush’ ‘for older man’ and Alicia was ‘minger’. Brandon said Alicia was ‘bowler’, word I hadn’t come across before. Learnt it means same thing as minger. Increase your wordpower. Both of them very impressed that my ex-boyfriend was in a celebrity magazine, even if it was only an Irish one.
‘Anything about him in Heat?’ Kelly asked. ‘Or Grazia?’
‘No.’
‘Well, sure, never mind. And you knew nothing about the other woman? Nothing AT ALL?’
I shook head.
‘I’d have killed him,’ she marvelled. ‘Killed him with my bare hands.’
‘You could just sit on him,’ Brandon said, with unexpected venom. ‘That’d do the trick. Not many men would survive being sat on by your arse.’
She responded with gusto. ‘All You’d have to do is breathe on someone!’
Revised original assessment that Brandon and Kelly were boyfriend and girlfriend. Brother and sister, more likely.
‘And now you’re down here in Tom Twoomey’s house nursing a broken heart.’
‘We get a fair bit of that,’ Brandon said. ‘Women. Arriving here. With broken hearts. Don’t know why. Maybe they think the waves will fix them. Walking the beach twenty times a day. Often they go exploring up on sand dunes. Don’t realize they’re owned by golf club. Suddenly find themselves in middle of the eleventh hole, balls whizzing past their heads. Escorted off in buggy. Usually very upset.’
‘Very upset,’ Kelly said.
Strange pause ensued. Then both of them convulsing with laughter.
‘Sorry,’ Brandon said, shaking with mirth. ‘Is just… is just –’
‘– they think they’re being all soulful,’ Kelly said, face contorted from laughing. ‘Communing with nature… and then… and then… they nearly get brained by golf ball…’
‘Have no intention of walking on any beach or up any sand dunes,’ I said coldly.
Is not nice to laugh at heartbroken women.
Abruptly they stopped laughing. Cleared their throats. Kelly said, ‘You might start painting. Getting all that heartbreak out of your system.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, happens a lot. Painting.’
‘Or poetry,’ Brandon interjected.
‘Or pottery.’
‘But mostly painting. Let’s face it, better than cutting off your man’s lad with a bread knife.’ Brandon gave Kelly meaningful look.
‘What?’ She turned and yelled into his face, ‘That was an ACCIDENT!’
Then to me, ‘We have crayons and copybooks, but if you need proper paints and all, there’s shop in Ennistymon.’ (Ennistymon nearest proper town.)
No intention of starting painting.
Or poetry.
Or pottery.
Things bad enough.
23.59
Godfather marvellous film. Simply chock full of revenge. And quite fancy Al Pacino. Hopeful sign. All evening only picked up the phone to ring Paddy three times. Or thrice, if you prefer. Like that word. Got it in Margery Allingham book.
0.37
‘Turned in’ as they say in Margery Allingham. Strange saying. But so are many sayings when think about it. Example, ‘Don’t go there!’ That is very odd saying, unless you are talking about Afghanistan, or Topshop on Saturday afternoon, two weeks before Christmas.
2.01
Jerked awake, in the absolute horrors. Gripped by terrible compulsion to get into car and drive straight across country to Dublin, to find Paddy and beg him to be with me. Began flinging things into bag. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Waking nightmare. He was getting married to someone else? But that couldn’t be!
Should I have shower? No. Should I get dressed? No. No, yes. What if I actually found him? Couldn’t be like an asylum escapee in my pyjamas. What should I wear? Couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide. Muzzy from sleeping tablet but thoughts going too fast. Whizzing past before could snag one.
Bumped first bag down stairs. Must go to bathroom to collect things. No. Leave them. Who cares? It’s just stuff. Opened front door, cool night air, flung bag into car boot, back into house for other bag.
But by the time I was lugging second bag down stairs, my heartbeat had slowed. Thoughts more ordered. Saw my lunacy. Pointless driving to Dublin. He wouldn’t see me. That had been his plan all along and was hardly likely to change his mind now.
I sat on front step in my pyjamas, staring out at darkness. Fields out there, couldn’t see them.
Trip down memory lane
Funny thing is, when first met Paddy de Courcy in graveyard, didn’t think would end up falling for him. So not my type. Previous boyfriend, Malachy the photographer, very different. Small, neat, sparkly-eyed charmer. Loved women, women loved him back. Charmed models like Zara Kaletsky into doing mad poses for him. (In fact, that was how I met Malachy. I was Zara’s stylist until she left Ireland so abruptly. She fixed us up.)
Malachy not very hairy. But, as I was buffeted by icy winds that day in the cemetery, I could tell simply by looking at Paddy de Courcy’s overcoat that he would have hairy chest. Picking up on subliminal signs. Dark raspy stubble on jaw. Backs of hands scattered with dark hairs. (Not like woolly mammoth King Kong paws – nice coverage.) Smooth hair-free chest simply wouldn’t fit.
He asked, ‘Do you come here often?’
I said, ‘Do I come here often?’ I surveyed marble slabs of death stretching out in all directions. Just goes to show, you can meet a man anywhere. ‘About once a month.’
‘This is slightly unorthodox…’ he said. ‘Graveyard and all that… Could come back in a month’s time hoping to bump into you, or… would you like to come for hot chocolate now?’
Clever. Hot chocolate the one thing – the only thing – I would have accepted. Safe. Totally different if he’d invited me for alcoholic drink. Or, indeed, cup of tea. Alcoholic drink – lecherous sleaze. Cup of tea – dullard with mother fixation.
Went to pub across road (Gravediggers Arms) where drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisced about dead mothers.
He said, ‘Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell her, and every time something bad happens, I want her help.’
Knew exactly how he felt. We were both fifteen when our mums died. Was nice – glorious relief, actually – to meet someone who had lost their mum the same age I had. Talked openly, compared feelings, was drawn to him but didn’t fancy him. Actually felt I was almost doing him a favour, spending time with him, so he could talk about his mother.
He said, ‘Probably in bad taste, considering where we met, but any chance I could see you again? Promise I won’t talk about my mother the next time.’
I retreated against upholstery. Assailed by image of him looming over me, him naked, hairy-chested, hard-on in hand. My stomach did unpleasant squeeze. Excitement? Possibly not. Maybe nausea. He wasn’t my type. I thought he looked too old, also (shallow, shallow! Yes, I know) I didn’t like his clothes. Too buttoned-up, too safe. But why not give it a try?
Wrote my phone number on ancient cinema stub.
He looked at it. Said, ‘Mission Impossible? Any good?’
‘You didn’t see it?’
‘Never get time to go to pictures.’
‘Why not?’
‘Am politician. Deputy leader of New Ireland. Full-on job.’
Felt had better ask him his name – is what you have to do when people say they are writer or actor or – yes – politician. Almost as if they are angling to be asked.
‘Paddy de Courcy.’
Nodded and said, ‘Mmmm,’ to disguise fact had never heard of him.
He watched me shoot past in my red Mini, admiration in his eyes. I looked at him in rear-view. Even from distance could see blueness of his eyes. Coloured contact lenses? No. Coloured contact lenses make eyes strangely starey and dead-looking. Wearers look like aliens. Sometimes clients take a notion to wear them for big night out. (‘I fancy being a green-eyed temptress tonight.’) I always talk them out of it. Tacky. Very… Mariah Carey.
Wondered if Paddy de Courcy would call. Wasn’t sure he would. Suspected he might be married. Also we weren’t, on the face of it, a likely match. I had red Mini Cooper, he had navy Saab. I had sharp-cut, wide-lapelled, teal jacket, he had sober navy overcoat. I had angular Louise Brooks bob and Chiarascuro highlights (colour before Molichino), he had bouffy hair.
Didn’t Google him. That’s how interested I wasn’t.
Early next morning my mobile rang. I didn’t recognize number but answered because could be new client. Some woman said, ‘I’m calling from Paddy de Courcy’soffice. Mr de Courcy was wondering if you are free this evening. He will pick you up at seven p.m. I need your address please.’
I was startled into silence. Then laughed. Said, ‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, not giving address. Who’s he think he is?’
Her turn to be startled. Said, ‘Is Paddy de Courcy!’
‘If Mr de Courcy wants to make arrangement with me, Mr de Courcy can pick up phone and call me himself.’
‘… Yes… but Ms Daly, Mr de Courcy very busy man…’
Understand busyness. Most of my clients very busy people and usually clients’ assistant, rather than clients themselves, call to set up styling appointment. But that was work. This was not work.
‘Must go now,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Nice talking to you. Goodbye.’ (Costs nothing to be polite. Also she might want to be styled at some time in the future.)
I wasn’t even indignant. Simply realized had been right to think he wasn’t my type. Maybe that is how some people live their lives, getting their assistants to set up romantic assignations. Perhaps it is considered perfectly fine in certain circles.
I didn’t expect him to ring back and I really didn’t care. When think now of the risk I ran, I go hot and cold all over. Could have blithely thrown it all away. Over before it ever started. Then realize it’s all over anyway, and maybe would have been better off being spared the pain. But couldn’t imagine not having had him in my life. Was the most intense experience. The most intense man. Most beautiful, most sexy.
Anyway, a few minutes later, he did call. Laughing. Apologizing for being arrogant asshole.
I said, ‘You politicians have totally lost touch with reality.’ (Light-hearted tone. Banter.)
‘No, haven’t.’
‘Oh really? If so, tell me price of litre of milk?’ (Once, by accident, saw programme where minister of something was shamed for not knowing that. Actually felt quite sorry for him. Not so sure of price myself. But could tell you to the nearest euro, exact cost of entire Chloé collection. Wholesale, discounted and full retail. We all have our gifts.)
Paddy de Courcy said, ‘Don’t know. Don’t drink milk.’
‘Why so? Too busy?’
He laughed. Banter going well.
I said, ‘No milk on your cereal?’
‘Don’t eat cereal.’
‘What you have for breakfast?’
Pause. Then he said, ‘Would you like to find out?’
Cheesy. Remembered his bouffy hair. Didn’t want to banter any longer.
‘Sorry,’ he said. Sounded humbled, then he asked, ‘You free this evening?’
‘No.’ (Was, but really…)
‘How about tomorrow… uh, no, can’t do tomorrow. Or Wednesday. Just a minute,’ he said, then called to someone, ‘Stephanie, can you get me out of that thing with Brazilians on Thursday?’ Then he was back. ‘Thursday?’
‘Let me look at appointments.’ I checked, then said, ‘Yes, okay for Thursday evening.’
‘Thursday it is,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up. Seven?’
What was this thing with seven? Why so early?
‘I’ll book couple of tables for dinner and you can choose.’
Bridled at way he was calling all the shots, then… don’t know… stopped bridling, is best way to put it.
‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You married?’
‘Why? You offering?’
Further cheesiness. I said, ‘Yes or no? Married or not?’
‘Not.’
�
�Fine.’
‘Really looking forward to seeing you,’ he said.
‘… Yes, me too.’
But wasn’t sure I was. And when I climbed into the back of his car and he was Mr Grown-up in his suit and briefcase, I thought, Oh no, terrible mistake. Stomach did that rolling, tilty nausea thing again. And, of course, things got worse in the shop. But then… undressing for him… everything changed. Started to really fancy him. Never looked back.
Friday, 5 September 12.19
Woke up. Had gone back to bed around 6 a.m., when sun was rising.
No longer felt crazed desperation for Paddy. Simply felt of no value. Wasn’t good enough for him. Not good enough for anyone.
13.53
Walked into town. Sea mist hanging in air, playing merry hell with hair.
When I reached special spot on bend of road, stopped and gazed up at next-door’s window, hoping to see woman in wedding dress. Intrigued. In fact, maddened with curiosity. But no sign of her.
14.01
The Oak
Soup of day, mushroom. Beginning to wonder if any other kind. Cheesecake of day, strawberry. Ditto.
15.05
Internet café
Thought would visit couple of nice sites. Net-a-porter. LaRedoute. Gazing upon beautiful things might bring sparkle back into world. But café closed! Crooked handwritten sign said, ‘Gone to lunch.’ Annoyed. These French people with their lunch hours! Stomped off towards home. Decided on seafront route, to get little infusion of magic house, and who did I see, outside magic house, only Cecile! Hooked by her knees, she was hanging upside down on the railings overlooking the waves, giggling with three surf boys in wetsuits.